


All You Have

by blogyourfeelings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Parentlock, The Hooper-Holmes Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blogyourfeelings/pseuds/blogyourfeelings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into the life of Sherlock Holmes - consulting detective <i>and proud father </i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I get hundreds of ideas for silly parent!lock fics, but this one insisted on being written. I apologise for the fluffiness and sugary sweet daddy!lock.

“Please tell us about your case, Mr Harvey.”

The elderly man was poised to begin, but faltered, eyes darting quizzically between the pair sitting on sofa chairs either side of him.  Mr Harvey’s gaze finally returned to the infamous detective – the one whose reputation definitely preceded him – and cocked a grey eyebrow in disbelief.

“I heard your methods were a bit strange, Mr Holmes,” Mr Harvey said, his weary, wrinkled mouth twitching upwards as he glanced at the tiny figure on the other chair, poised and eager to hear his tale. The old man let out a gruff laugh. “But this certainly is... bizarre.”

“I’m not _bizarre_ ,” the little voice peeped up, her scowl indignant.  “I’m good at being a detective,” she claimed proudly, but her pretty blue-green eyes sought the reassurance of the world’s only consulting detective, better known to her as ‘Daddy.’

“Of course you are, angel,” Sherlock complimented, smiling at her softly. The detective shot his potential client a dark look, as if any doubt of his child’s ability were a crime. “It’s in your blood,” he added, looking a tad smug.

Bolstered by her father’s words, she turned back to Mr Harvey and repeated, “Please tell us about your case,” she said politely, readying herself for him to begin his story. Olivia Hooper-Holmes – as she’d confidently introduced herself earlier, offering out her tiny hand to shake – formed an expression of steel concentration, her purple heart-patterned pencil prepped to scrawl on her pink kitten notebook.

“All right,” Mr Harvey began, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit, retrieving his wallet. “You see, my late wife, Sylvia, loved jewellery. But she had this matching set of earrings and necklace. An old family heirloom. Worth a pretty penny,” he informed the listening pair, rifling through various cards in his wallet to find an old dog eared photograph and handed it over to Sherlock. Mr Harvey smiled fondly at the picture in Sherlock’s hands. “Wore them all the time.”

“And this jewellery has recently been stolen,” Sherlock deduced, giving the photograph back to Mr Harvey. The detective's eyes darted back to his daughter, watching as her small white teeth gnawed at her lip as she tried to quickly jot down Mr Harvey’s story, her intense focus greatly reminding him of her mother’s expression as she writes her autopsy notes.

“Yes,” Mr Harvey confirmed, slipping his wallet back into his pocket. “I kept them in a safe in my office. When I checked this morning, they were gone.”

Upon the man’s confirmation, Sherlock’s eyes fell on his tiny daughter. “Olivia?” he prompted, a question hidden in his gaze.

The child twirled an auburn curl in her finger, her face pinched in thought. “A three?” she offered, sounding hopeful.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. He grinned widely.

“I can help?!” Olivia asked excitedly. Though Mr Harvey wasn’t, the pair in front of him were well educated on Molly Hooper Holmes’ rules – _no cases over 5’s for their tiny daughter_ – and no exceptions were to be made. A whole week sleeping on their couch had undeniably ingrained that into Sherlock’s mind.

Sherlock nodded, immensely pleased to see his youngest’s enthusiasm for the art of deduction. He tried and failed – much to Molly’s amusement – to instil this interest in all their children. One out of three wasn’t so bad. His sons had other passions and that was more than okay.

Drawing his eyes back to Mr Harvey, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You have an idea who the perpetrator is.” Not a question, a statement.

Mr Harvey’s lips compressed into a thin line. “How –”

“How did I know that?” Sherlock finished the man’s query and sighed. “Well, either you believe the Metropolitan police to be incompetent and unable to help you...” Sherlock trailed off as his daughter fired a glare at him – disgruntled at his derogatory words towards her Uncle Greg and her beloved Sally Donovan – and Sherlock made the wise decision to backtrack. “Or you know who the culprit is, but you want to deal with it yourself, rather than get the authorities involved.”

“Yes, that's right,” he said honestly, his speech stalling, his sad brown eyes dropping to the floor. When looking up, he found the strength to continue from the patient, kind gaze of the pint-sized seven year old. Sherlock's steely eyes indicated from him to go on. “I have four children, Mr Holmes. Three girls. When my Sylvia passed – they began to argue – about what to do with a lot of her belongings, but the necklace and earrings especially. To end their silly fighting, I told them I auctioned them off for their mother’s favourite charity. They were furious... but it put an end the arguments.  I had kept the jewellery hidden away in my office, thinking they would be safe there...but one of them must have figured out I’d lied.”

“We’ll need to organise a meeting with them all, Mr Harvey,” Sherlock told him. “Perhaps invite them to your office today and then we can discern which one of your children is a thief,” he said, his words earning him another reproachful look from his daughter that was so akin to her mother it was terrifying. “Possibly a thief,” he corrected, lips twitching apologetically.

The deep, sad lines of their client’s face did not fade. Olivia hopped off the couch from her perched position, her black and pink polka dot socks coming into Mr Harvey’s view just before she laid her little hand on his. “It’ll be okay,” she said gently, imitating her own mother’s method of making her feel better. Well, normally that would accompanied by a tight hug, but Olivia could hardly embrace a complete stranger, as her mother had also taught her about the importance of personal space.

“Thank you, dear,” Mr Harvey said appreciatively, patting the child’s hand, smiling at her when she returned to her chair to display her efforts had been partially successful.

“Right then,” Sherlock said, springing from his chair. “Call the meeting for later this afternoon. Olivia and I will be along to the office shortly so we can examine the crime-scene before they arrive,” the consulting detective instructed.

Mr Harvey was a silent for a moment, stunned by this whole baffling experience.

Even the room around him was a perculiar personifaction of Sherlock Holmes himself- a union of the bizarre and the normality of family life. The mantelpiece held several picture frames, all happy, smiling faces, but a skull sat proudly in the middle, a yellow smiley face drawn on its frontal bone in what looked suspiciously like crayon. The unusual stag head that decorated the wall to the right of Mr Harvey had a Tottenham scarf hung from its antlers.  Sat at the left of Sherlock’s leather chair laid a vintage violin case, which two plastic swords lay atop of. A knitting basket rested on the coffee table, hiding an array of juggling balls in a sea of wool.

The vibrancy of life and family and glorious fun was so evident in this room.

“Mr Harvey,” Sherlock’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.  The detective’s brow furrowed. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Mr Harvey rushed to assure. He rose from his wooden seat. “I’ll phone them immediately and organise the meeting. Thank you, Mr Holmes, for agreeing to help me,” he said, shaking the dark haired man’s hand in gratitude. Bending down as far as his stiff knees would allow him, he offered his hand out to the other ‘detective’ that was on his case. “And thank you to you too, Olivia Hooper Holmes,” Mr Harvey said affectionately, evoking a shy smile from the girl as she accepted his handshake.

“You’re welcome,” she said, her adorable nose scrunching.

“You’ll need the address of my office before I go,” Mr Harvey realised, reaching back into his pocket to get his wallet again.

“No need. You’ve already told us.”

Mr Harvey couldn’t resist the impulse to ask, “How?”

“When you were searching for the picture of your wife, you pulled out several cards. One of which was a loyalty card for specialised coffee house. Most go to coffee shops near their work. This particular coffee chain only has two shops in Central London, therefore – ”

“You also pulled out your business card with the loyalty card,” Olivia interrupted, her voice a shade louder than it had been previously. “It has your office address on it,” the seven year old stated, smirking at her father.

“Well, I suppose that would be a quicker way,” Sherlock said, his tone tinged with the loss of the opportunity to show off his deductive skills. Pride soon overwhelmed his grouchiness. “Good spot,” he praised, his blue eyes full of undisguised adoration.  “Go get ready, angel. We’ve got a case to solve.”

Olivia’s smile grew larger at her father’s accolade. “Okay!” she said brightly, dashing off upstairs, her reddish curls bouncing.

“Unbelievable,” Mr Harvey breathed out.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice filled with fatherly pride. His expression was softened by the adornment of a smile of a man who could hardly believe his own luck; to be landed with a life so full, so rich, so bright. His family - Molly and their children- would always be his great achievement and the source of all wonder in his blessed existence. The little girl upstairs - packing her bag with all the essentials that a London detective could possibly need – was his devoted apprentice, his angel, his mini partner in solving crime.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He misses them when he's gone.

Begrudgingly, Sherlock can admit sometimes his older brother can be a great help to him.

Even hundreds of miles away in Southern France in the midst of a case, one phone call from his brother provides him with what he admittedly needs. He really should complain that his brother having cameras in his home is a blatant violation of their privacy, but the damn things were very useful now that he needed a glimpse of his family.

The view of the living room is fairly decent, the covert cameras and microphone hidden in the stag's head he’s had on the wall for years, now decorated with a football scarf of his eldest's beloved Tottenham. It is one of the many changes that 221B has seen and it's wonderful to marvel at how his old flat has become their home.

Three children leave their mark.

Isaac John Holmes, followed minutes later by Christopher Mycroft Holmes, love to scatter the flat with books and toys and discarded clothes. Isaac is the shyer of the two, hiding behind his brown curls and poetry books. Christopher, named after Molly’s father, is enthralled by puzzles and mathematics. So much so they'd had to buy a chalk board for his room to stop him scrawling maths problems on his bedroom walls. The younger twin adores spending weekends at his grandparent’s cottage out in the country, talking over equations with his grandmother that make Molly’s head spin.

Yet, despite their differing intellectual abilities, they are the best of friends. Sherlock finds it mystifying at time- the strength of their brotherhood, the way they communicate, and often conspire with ease. He delves into the deep recesses of his mind to find a memory, or a thought, in which he felt that kind of connection to his brother in his childhood years. He comes up short, and the happiness he feels at his son’s relationship is paired with the troubling notion that years of petty sibling rivalry have stopped him and Mycroft from having a similar bond.

He can hear the familar sounds of the clanking of plastic swords -  really he will have to have a discussion with his brother about privacy - through his speakers. His sons come in to view with over the top groans as they act out their hard fought battle. Molly laments often at just seven years old they already have the Holmes flair for dramatics.

“For Queen and country!” Christopher booms, his voice sounding clearly to Sherlock. Isaac, distracted by the outburst does not expect the sharp blow to his abdomen. He admits defeat with a fake cry of anguish, falling to his knees to clutch his injured stomach. Olivia, the final child of the Holmes trio, comes into the picture when she stands on his chair, clapping her hands in congratulations of her brother's victory.

“My turn!” she exclaims, tiny arms and legs springing off the chair with the speed of Molly's blasted cat Toby.

If his sons were ordinary boys, he would expect them to refuse such a request from their small, flowerlike waif of a sister. They’re not, he can think with pride, so he’s not surprised by the enthusiasm of their agreement. Issac, ever the tactician, has a plan formulated as quick as a flash.

“Get on my back, Liv!" Sherlock hears Isaac command and his son maintains his position on his knees to allow her the chance to clamber onto him. “Let’s get him little sis!”

Christopher grins with Sherlock-esque confidence, his feet bouncing around the room despite his sibling’s plan to outnumber him. “I will just have to kill you both.”

Molly, who Sherlock presumes must have been busy in the kitchen out of view, chooses an opportune time to enter the room and intervene with a plead. “Please be careful,” she implores, but Sherlock can see her brown eyes alight with amusement do nothing to tame their excitable children. They both as parents are equally encouraging of their children's exuberant antics, both actively trying not to stifle them. Still, to keep a close eye on proceedings, Molly relaxes into the seat she now shares ownership with John.

“Don’t worry mother,” Isaac replies, those Holmes blue-green eyes serious beyond his years. He hands his little sister the sword and she handles it with the ease Molly does a scalpel.

Christopher turns his head a touch to gift Molly a beguiling grin while slicing practice shots through the air. “Yes, don’t worry Mum,” he repeats, his eyes gleeful in the anticipation of completion. “I’ll slay these peasants in your honour.”

Sherlock can only watch Molly shake her head and revel in the ridiculous, bizarre way her children behave and talk. That's what she signed up, she tells him often, a life and family that may stray from societal norms, but is strange and brilliant and bursting with happiness. Sherlock feels that joy within him as his attempts to restrain a grin fail as he watches his youngest, her adorable cherub cheeks and large doe eyes morphing to harden into the face of a ferocious warrior.

They bow before the fight starts, Isaac only tipping forward slightly so he doesn’t lose balance. Christopher is quick to try to make the first blow, to use their inability to move at speed to his advantage. Olivia foresees this, blocking a blow intent on hitting Isaac's chest. They circle each other for a bit, with the stormy tension of a battle brewing between them. Sherlock notes that he really does have to have a talk with them about not making everything a live or die competition. It's Holmes thing, but still.

Sherlock's eyes shift to the mother of his children, who is watching their every move warily and the consulting detective can hardly blame her. Fractured, sprained and broken bones have taken the Holmes family to accident and emergency far too many times for it to be laughable now.

 "Prepare to die, suckers!“ Christopher explodes, racing forward to stab at Isaac's legs, which are out of Olivia's blocking zone. Christopher, with all his mathematically genius, does not factor in his sister’s speedy reflexes. As he closes in, the pint-sized four year old whacks the sword flat down onto his head. Christopher reels back, shocked, and Isaac seizes the moment to lean down so his sister can administer the death blow to the heart.

If Christopher had been Sherlock at his age, he would have been grumbling and gone into a huff about unfair tactics. Thankfully, there’s plenty of Molly’s grace in him and he lets out a yelped chuckle and sticks his hand out to his younger sibling.

"Nice hit, little one,” he compliments, grasping her hand in a firm shake as soon as her feet are back on the ground. Olivia scowls at the nickname for a moment, but the joy of winning shifts her lips into a grin. Christopher returns it with ease. “But I will have my vengeance.”

Molly stands at this comment,  moving to ruffle the younger boy's hair and kiss his forehead in commiseration. “You can have your vengeance another night, because don’t you boys have homework to be doing?” Molly jokes.

Motherhood hadn't changed her nature, she’d just adapted her jokes and her caring attitude to it. She has such a natural way with them, nurturing and gentle, that Sherlock is often jealous of her intuitive abilities.

The hundreds of miles between them suddenly feels like thousands. He wants to get home to Molly and the perfect madness of their children, not just view them through a screen. He’s been told he should be grateful to get away from the chaos of his home. That he should be glad to have an escape from the screeches of play flights, from drawings scattered across the kitchen table, from piled up dishes and strewn away clothing.

But he isn't, and he hopes he never will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a very stressful week, so if you guys have any thoughts/headcanons/prompts about Parentlock and the Sherlolly kids, please tell me about them because anything involving parentlock makes me smile!


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